


Strength of a Bear

by leonidaslion



Series: Berserker [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Drama, F/M, Spirit Animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Power is a great temptation...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was hard to remember at first. John would be getting ready to shower, or undressing for bed, and he’d be halfway to lifting that damned amulet off his neck before he realized what he was doing. It wasn’t an unconscious desire to finish falling down that steep slope, although there was always a good helping of that present: it was just that he wasn’t used to wearing things that never came off. Except for his ring—Mary’s ring—which he’d worn for so long now that it felt like it was fused with his skin.

Then there had been Boulder: a long, painful hunt putting down a couple of foul tempered atshen. He was already pissed off at having to deal with someone else’s mess—those cannibalistic fuckers should never have gotten this far south—and then one of them had gotten a taste for Dean. Chewed his arm up pretty good before John could get it off him.

When they got back to the hotel, Dean was half-delirious from the damned atshen’s venom. He was limp and unresisting as John worked him out of his coat and shirts. Then John had automatically reached for the loop of leather around his son’s throat.

Dean’s hands closed over John’s instantly, despite the delirium, and his eyes were bright with fear. “ _Don’t_.” Just one word, but it _hurt_ to hear Dean sound like that, like he was cut up inside and John was spilling salt over the wounds.

John flinched back like he’d been burned, dropping his hands to his sides and breathing shallowly. Christ, he’d almost … “God, Dean, I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay. M’fine. Just leave it, okay?”

“Of course I’m gonna fucking leave it!” John snapped. His panic slipped easily into anger, and suddenly he was more pissed than panicked. Maybe John was entertaining certain alternatives, but that didn’t mean he wanted his son anywhere near those same options.

Taking the amulets off was essentially the same thing as committing suicide, and John knew it. He knew that once he let the bear in, he’d be gone and there’d be something else in his place. Something that he would have hunted down and killed without the slightest hesitation.

Maybe John lay in bed at night thinking about it, wanting it so bad he could almost feel the bear waking inside of him. Maybe he sometimes stood in the shower with his head pressed against the wall and his hands curled around the black loops of his own amulet, his muscles trembling with the effort not to yank it off and have done with the whole sorry mess. But that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t beat his son senseless for so much as entertaining the notion.

John cleaned out Dean’s arm carefully, keeping well away from the amulet and its leather cord. Then he put his son to bed. Sat with Dean while the venom burned itself out of the boy's system. John held his head in his hands and thought, over and over, like a hammer pounding down inside of him: _they don’t come off. They don’t come off. They don’t come off._

After that, he managed to remember. The only thing he had to worry about was giving into temptation.

Seeing Dean tossed through the air like a sack of feathers. Waking from a dream with Mary’s voice still in his ears, her taste in his mouth. Being too slow, too late again: finding the thing they were hunting only after it had claimed another victim. Hell, glancing at his reflection in the mirror and catching the gleam of light off of gold: anything could and did set it off. And then John had to grit his teeth and remind himself that it was a bad fucking idea.

It was four months and five days after leaving Bobby’s. Four months and five days and he and Dean were working a job in Athens, Ohio. Four months and five days and John gave Bobby a call, just checking in, and everything went to hell.

“John, thank God,” Bobby said right off. “I was just about to call you.”

“What’s up?”

“I ran into a woman while I was in town picking up a few things. Brought her back to my place and she tried to take my throat out.”

“You always had great taste,” John noted dryly.

“She’s possessed,” Bobby grunted.

“I notice you aren’t using the past tense. What happened: she get away?” It happened. Not usually to Bobby, not when demons were involved, but no one was perfect. The man had been known to slip up on occasion.

“Hell no,” Bobby answered instantly, offended. “I’ve got her tied up: found something new in one of my books and it seems to be holding the demon pretty good. But you need to get over here now.”

“Why? Want me to hold your hand through the exorcism?” John deadpanned.

“I’m serious, John. It said some things you’re gonna want to hear.”

John went still. “About what?”

“About Lawrence.” Bobby hesitated, and then added, “About Sam.”

“Fuck.” John’s breath pushed out like he’d just been sucker punched, which he supposed he had been, in a way. Not that he hadn’t been half-expecting this: hadn’t been searching for a connection between his youngest and what had happened that night in the nursery. But hearing it said aloud, even obliquely, was a whole new kettle of fish. “Fuck,” he said again, more solidly.

“How soon can you get here?”

“I’m in Ohio. I’ll catch a plane: be there in a few hours.”

“Hurry. I’m not sure how long I can hold the thing.”

John hung up without bothering to say goodbye and instantly dialed Dean, who was presumably at the local university library, researching. He moved quickly but efficiently around the room as he waited for his son to answer, gathering his things and shoving them back into his carryall.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Dean. I need to leave for a bit. Got a lead to check up on.”

“You want me back at the room?” Dean sounded hopeful: probably bored out of his mind with all those newspapers John had him going through. Dean had never enjoyed the research aspect of the job.

“No. You go ahead and finish up there. You can handle things while I’m gone.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said automatically. And then, reluctantly, he added, “You want me to wait until you come back to take out the revenant?”

John hesitated. Dean hadn’t ever handled a job on his own before, out of John’s line of sight and beyond his protection. But then again, Dean had been saving John’s ass just as often as John had been saving Dean’s, lately. And the revenant needed taking care of before it eviscerated someone else.

“No, you go ahead. I'm leaving you the car; everything you need should be in the trunk.”

“Yes, sir.”

John heard the anticipation and pride in his son’s voice and smiled. “I’ll be back in a few days. I expect to hear a full report.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to be careful, Dean. And just because I’m not here doesn’t mean you get to slack off. You leave the women alone and go easy on the beer until it’s done: you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” Dean’s voice had gone clipped and distant and John winced. Why the hell did his worried nagging always end up making it sound like he didn’t trust the boy? Like he thought Dean was a five-year-old kid being left alone with a candy jar?

Too late to take it back now, though, so John just said, “You watch your back, Dean,” and then hung up before his mouth could get him into any more trouble.

He hummed nervously under his breath the entire cab ride to the airport, feeling open and exposed without any weapons. This was precisely why he never flew unless he absolutely had to: he knew the crawling anxiety wouldn’t leave him until he got to Bobby’s and helped himself to the man’s arsenal. And even then he had the return trip to look forward to.

His nerves were worse than usual today, though: disquiet mingled with a kind of desperate hope. There were answers ahead of him. After almost twenty years of searching, he was finally going to find out why. Find out what had killed Mary and ripped his life apart. And when he did, he was going to make the son of a bitch pay.

John’s hand sneaked up, curling around the amulet, and he smiled.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“You watch your back, Dean.”

“You too,” Dean said softly, even though he knew that his father had already hung up. He sat there with the phone pressed against his ear, pride and worry and hurt all jumbling together and demanding his attention. He couldn’t decide which of them to bash into submission first.

Finally, he sighed and flipped his phone closed. Dropped it on the table and tipped his chair back, stretching his legs, and immediately ended up with a lapful of girl. And _woahshitcold_ water soaking into his jeans as she spilled the Evian she’d been carrying all over him.

“Fuck!” Dean shouted.

The girl was swearing under her breath and struggling to right herself. Failing miserably to do anything but drive an elbow into his stomach. Trying a new tactic, she reached down to push herself up and they both went suddenly still. Because the girl may have been aiming for the chair arm or Dean’s thigh, but that sure as hell wasn’t where her hand landed. And yeah, awkward.

Even worse, Dean’s arms and legs had frozen in shock, but certain parts of his anatomy were working just fine, thanks. He felt a small rush of relief when the girl finally yanked her hand back with a muffled yelp. Stayed very still while she fought her way back to her feet and out of his lap.

“I am _so_ sorry, I didn’t mean to—to uh … and I spilled my water on your uh … Oh _God_.”

Dean looked up, getting his first good look at the girl, and it really didn’t help matters any. She was petite, with a waist small enough that he thought he might be able to span it with his hands. High cheekbones and a strong nose. Smooth, coffee-colored skin flushed with embarrassment. Wide, velvet brown eyes, and masses of tight, dark curls.

A wave of desire so strong it hurt pulsed through him, but he already knew that he wasn’t going to do anything about it. And that decision didn’t have anything to do with his father’s admonition: it had to do with the leaden weight Dean was carrying around his neck these days. With the dim, red-washed memory of a girl trembling in Dad’s arms and the instant surge of _hunger/lust/need/want_ that had spilled through him—through the wolf—at the way the moonlight caught the sleek line of her throat. Even now, he didn’t know if the wolf had wanted to kill her or fuck her. Maybe it had wanted both.

The simple fact of the matter was that although he hadn’t heard a peep from the wolf since Bobby had dropped the amulet around his neck, Dean didn’t know what kind of limits the thing had. He didn’t know if it would work for ten years, or twenty, or if it would peter out in the next five minutes. And Bobby hadn’t been able to tell him. He’d just shrugged and said, “It’ll work while it works.”

Dean supposed that, at some point, he’d get desperate enough for a good fuck that he’d jump into bed with a woman and damn the consequences. Damn the chance that the amulet would give out when he was in the middle of things. When there was a woman spread out under him, her body naked and ready to be torn into.

Not that he had completely cock-blocked himself. He figured he could still have a little fun, as long as the clothes stayed mostly on and they didn’t take it anywhere too isolated. But a little fooling around in a public restroom wasn’t really an adequate substitute for sex.

And dropping a gorgeous woman in his lap and putting her hand on his dick when he couldn’t follow through with anything was just _mean_.

Dean realized he was staring at the girl with his mouth hanging open like some kind of halfwit and managed to get his lips to turn up into a smile. “It’s cool. No harm done.”

“I, um …” She slid her purse off her shoulder and rummaged around in it, doing her best not to look at him. Dean couldn’t help himself from taking advantage of her distraction to drink in the lines of her neck and the smooth swell of her breasts beneath the skin-tight shirt she was wearing.

After a few minutes of searching, the girl came up with a napkin and reached down toward Dean’s wet jeans. She flushed even brighter when she realized what she was doing and dropped the napkin down on the library table in front of him instead.

“I’m really sorry,” she insisted, still not meeting his eyes. “I was just walking down the aisle and I swear to God, I just looked over my shoulder for a second.”

Damn. That meant that this whole thing was Dean’s fault for tipping his chair back. Oops. “Don’t worry about it,” he said quickly. “Really. It’s not every day a beautiful woman falls into my lap.”

And then she _was_ looking—and not at his face, either. There was really no hiding the fact that he was interested, and her eyes widened. “Really sorry,” she said again, and then she was running away—was practically sprinting—leaving Dean cold and hard and really freaking uncomfortable.

He wanted to get up. Wanted to find the bathroom and jerk off. Dry his pants a little. But he didn’t quite dare move because the students at the surrounding desks were watching him, and he’d already made enough of an ass of himself. If he stood up now, his little problem would be immediately obvious, and the punks would be laughing about this for months. Stupid dick never used to be this easily excitable.

Dean dropped his head down on the desk with a thud. It was definitely time to start thinking about taking the post-wolf plunge. _After Dad gets back_ , he told himself. He wasn’t going to try anything without John nearby to run damage control if things went south.

When he lifted his head again, everyone was still staring at him. Didn’t they have anything better to do? Dean resisted the urge to adjust himself and scowled at them instead.

“Mind your own fucking business,” he growled. He must have sounded pretty convincing, too, because the kids suddenly got real interested in their own books and papers, and a few packed up quickly and left.

Dean settled back down, leafing through another newspaper. Hunting for a clue as to which Athens cemetery the revenant had crawled out of, and doing his best to ignore the ache spreading through his groin. But he still couldn’t shake the image of that face: of those eyes. Couldn’t stop himself from imagining what she would have looked like naked, what she would have tasted like, what it would have felt like to be inside her.

 _God, get a grip, Winchester_. Dean shifted a little, trying to get comfortable. He wasn’t going to see her again. He needed to stop obsessing about it. Needed to focus on the job at hand, the job that Dad was trusting him to finish.

But as soon as it was done—as soon as Dad was back in town—Dean was going to get hammered and then find a nice, easy local girl to fuck until they were both senseless. Then he was going to sleep for a few hours and do it all over again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Where is it?” John demanded as soon as Bobby opened the door.

Bobby just nodded and gestured toward the back of the house. “Put it in the spare room. Figured it’d do the least damage there if it got out.”

John strode down the hallway, leaving Bobby to close and lock the front door behind him, and then came to a stop in the doorway. There was a woman tied to one of Bobby’s mismatched wooden chairs, her head hanging forward and long, brown hair sweeping against her knees. Above the woman, Bobby had scrawled something on the ceiling in chalk.

“What is it?” he asked softly as he heard Bobby come up behind him.

“Key of Solomon. Nifty, isn’t it? How it works, is—”

“I’m not really interested in that right now, Bobby.” John’s entire body was wired with tension as he stared at the still woman in the chair. “What happened? She fall asleep?”

Bobby snorted. “Nope. It’s sulking.”

“Waiting,” the woman said, tilting her head and looking up at them from behind a curtain of hair. “There’s a difference.” Beetle black eyes settled on John and she smiled. “My, my. The great John Winchester.” She dragged her gaze across his body and then giggled. “The years haven’t been too kind, have they?”

John ignored the taunt and spared Bobby a glance. “What’re the parameters?”

“According to the book, the demon’s powerless as long as it’s under the trap, but I wouldn’t get inside the circle with it if I were you.”

“All right, then.” John grabbed a handy chair and pulled it up to the edge of the circle. Dropped into it and offered the demon his best cold smile. “We’re gonna have a little talk about Lawrence.”

“Or else? Come on, John. Dazzle me.” It tipped its head forward, cocky. “What are you gonna do to this poor sack of flesh I’m borrowing? She’s a mother, you know. Three children. They’re adorable.” It licked its lips. “I could just eat them up.”

“Bobby? You got some spare holy water lying around?” He didn’t turn around to ask, afraid that Bobby would read his intentions in his eyes.

“Sure. I’ll get it.”

John waited until Bobby had shuffled off down the hall and then leaned forward, wrapping one hand tightly around the demon’s throat. It bared its teeth at him, snarling, as he edged up real close.

“Now, this is how it’s gonna go,” he ground out. “I’m gonna ask you some questions, and you’re gonna answer me, or I’m gonna cut that body of yours apart piece by piece.”

“You wouldn’t hurt the woman,” it spat back.

“Wouldn’t I?” And John grinned at it. He let the desperation surface in his eyes, let the damned thing see that he’d had sentimental rubbed out of him years ago, and all that was left was necessity. And if it was necessary to slice this poor woman into strips for the greater good, then John was okay with that. He’d lose some sleep over it, sure, but he’d live.

The demon laughed at him and John tightened his grip on its throat, pressure just this side of crushing the woman’s windpipe. “Better …” the demon gasped out. “Yeah … this is … the Win … chester … I’ve heard … so much … about … You sure … you aren’t … fighting … on the … wrong side?”

John released the thing’s neck and backhanded it, hard. It turned its head to the side and spat blood onto the floor, then grinned at him with red lips. “Temper temper, John. Wouldn’t want to let Bobby see you like this, would you? He might get the idea that you aren’t letting sleeping bears lie.” Its gaze slipped down to the amulet and then back up to John’s face.

“Shut the hell up,” John growled.

“You’re right, you know,” it said brightly. “You can’t face what’s coming without it. You haven’t got a prayer, so to speak.” It leaned forward a little bit, voice dropping conspiratorially. “We’re gonna tear you apart, John. And then we’re gonna have a little fun with your boy. Mmm, Dean … wonder how long he’ll last. He’s so pretty. We can appreciate beauty, John. It makes everything so much sweeter when they scream.”

“What about Sam?” John asked hoarsely, digging.

“Don’t worry about Sammy, Johnny Boy. We’ll take real good care of him.”

John heard Bobby returning and ignored the sound the same way he ignored the panic rising inside him. “What do you want with him? What are you planning?”

“What are we planning?” The demon leaned back, its gaze flickering up and down between John and the doorway behind him. “Why, I thought that’d be obvious.”

“They want a war,” Bobby announced. He came to stand next to John and dropped a three-gallon jug of water on the floor by his feet. “That’s right, isn’t it? Weren’t happy with the way the first one turned out, so now you’ve gotta go and start another.”

The demon smirked at them.

“Where does Sam fit in? Where does Lawrence? Is it Stull? Is that the connection?” John pressed.

“Stull Cemetery,” the demon snorted. “If you believe that one, John, then you’re even dumber than I thought.”

“Then _what_?” John could hear the pain in his voice, could feel the tears building—of frustration, of rage. Felt them bubbling out of that Mary-shaped hole inside him. “Why the hell is my wife dead? Did you kill her? One of you?”

“You’re such a romantic, John. Still mourning for a crispy chunk of flesh after all these years.”

John’s vision went red and he was moving forward, fist lashing out, and before Bobby could stop him he’d rocked the demon’s head back with the punch straight to the face. Then Bobby had him by the back of the shirt and was hauling him away, and the demon was laughing hysterically.

“She’s a fried fritter!” the demon howled. “Wife flambé!” Then its voice lowered, and its smile slipped into a leer. “She’s in Hell, you know. Hell’s whore. You wouldn’t believe the number of us you’ve pissed off—the number of us who can’t get enough of fucking John Winchester’s woman.”

John turned around and slammed his fist into Bobby’s stomach, doubling over the man and making him let go, and then he was back across the room, crashing into the demon. The chair went over and splintered under their combined weight, releasing the demon, but it didn’t fight back as John wrapped his hands around its throat.

“Go ahead,” the demon choked out. “Kill me. It won’t bring _her_ back. She’s dead, John. She’s dead and Sam’s ours and there’s _nothing_ you can do about it.”

Then something hard slammed into the back of John’s head and he tumbled down into the dark.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean was on his way to the police station to dig through their old files when he saw her again. She was sitting at the counter in the local coffee shop, scribbling in a notebook and nibbling on a biscotti. There was an empty mug on the table next to her plate. Dean hesitated for all of two seconds before adjusting his course and heading inside.

When he dropped down into the empty seat across from her, a mug of coffee in each hand, she was so absorbed in what she was writing that it took her a minute to realize he was there.

The she jumped, and a warm flush spread over her cheeks. “Oh God, just shoot me now.”

“You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about, really.” Dean slid one of the cups of coffee he’d purchased across the table toward her. “It was totally my fault: I pushed my chair back right before you walked past.”

“Oh. Okay then. Thanks for telling me. I guess I’ll see you around.” The words were quick, mumbled, and addressed to the air somewhere to the right of Dean’s face. As soon as she’d finished speaking, she lowered her head and started doodling in her open notebook. Every line of her body radiated awkwardness and nerves.

This was stupid. She wasn’t interested. Obviously wanted him to leave. Dean should get up and bow out and just let it drop. But for some reason he didn’t. Just sat there and waited while she pretended to write. While she pretended that he didn’t exist.

Finally, she pressed her hands against the table and looked up again. “I, uh, I don’t mean to be insulting, but I’d really rather not sit and have coffee with the guy I accidentally groped a few hours ago, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Let me take you out to dinner.” Dean mentally kicked himself. What the hell was he doing, asking the girl who’d just told him to get lost out on a date? What was he doing asking _any_ girl out on a date with a ticking time bomb hung around his neck?

She was just as shocked as he was. Stared at him like he’d grown an extra head. “Are you _nuts_? I mean, seriously, are you?”

Dean told himself to shut up and get out of there before he lost all of his self-respect, but found himself saying, “Look, I know earlier was a little … awkward … but honestly, you’re gorgeous, and I’d kick myself later if I didn’t even bother to try.” He waited for a few uncomfortable minutes while she regarded him blankly and then sighed.

“Never mind, okay? This was obviously a real bad idea.” Dean pushed himself to his feet and then nodded at the untouched mug by her elbow. “Keep the coffee,” he muttered, turning to go.

“Hey.”

Dean glanced back over his shoulder cautiously.

“Vittoria’s.” The girl was scribbling intently on her pad again, not looking at him.

“Vittoria’s?”

“You wanted to get dinner, right? So, tonight. Six o’clock at Vittoria’s.”

Dean slid back into his seat, stomach fluttering unpleasantly. He hadn’t been this nervous and unsure of himself since he was fifteen. “What made you change your mind?”

She shrugged, still refusing to look up. “Maybe I liked what I felt.”

Dean blinked, not sure he’d heard her right until she glanced up at him with a tentative smile and a hint of mischief in her eyes. Oh. Okay. Well then. He felt his cheeks heat and suspected he was blushing himself, and what the hell was that all about? Dean Winchester didn’t blush. Ever.

The girl’s smile steadied at his poleaxed expression and she wrapped her hand around the coffee he’d offered her, pulling it closer. Cleared her throat and said, “So, I assume you have a name?”

“Dean Winchester,” he said immediately, and then stilled in horror. What the hell was he doing, giving his real name like that? He’d let his guard down, despite his nerves and a lifetime of caution, and it left him with a shocked, nauseas pit in his stomach: a sensation like falling. Why had he even come in here in the first place?

“I’m Cassie Robinson. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, I, uh … Look, I’ve gotta run, okay, Cassie? I just remembered something I have to do.”

Her smile faltered a little. “All right. I’ll see you at Vittoria’s at six?”

“Yeah, sure.” And then Dean ran out of the coffee shop like his ass was on fire.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

John woke up to a throbbing head and a cold cloth over his eyes. He groaned and pulled the cloth down, taking stock of the situation. He was lying in the bed in Bobby’s bedroom and Bobby was sitting in a chair next to him, watching him wake with narrowed eyes. There was a gun in his lap. John swallowed and was careful to sit very still.

“How are you feeling?” Bobby asked.

“Like someone conked me on the back of the head,” John answered. “How’s the woman?”

“She’ll be fine. Her throat’s gonna bother her for a bit.”

John nodded. “And the demon?”

“I exorcized it.” Bobby dropped his hand down, resting it on the butt of the gun. “How’s Dean doing?”

John blinked, startled by the sudden change of subject. “What?”

“I asked how Dean was doing.”

“He’s fine. Left him in Athens to finish up the job.” He inched up the bed a bit, real slowly, and put his back against the headboard. “You fixing to shoot me with that?” he asked, inclining his head at the gun.

“I don’t know. Do I need to?” Bobby’s voice was tight, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. John realized that the man was worried: maybe even a little scared. Which made John nervous as hell because Bobby was the one holding the gun here, and people who were frightened tended to get a little twitchy.

“What the hell, Bobby?” he said. “I know things got a little tense in there, but—”

“You almost killed that woman, John,” Bobby interrupted. “I didn’t knock you out in time and you would have.”

“I know, but that _thing_ —”

“What I can’t figure,” Bobby continued, riding over John’s words, “Is whether that was just you being an ass or if something else is to blame.”

He shrugged, tilting his head a little. “First I think maybe it’s my fault for using a faulty ritual or the wrong materials, so I want to know about Dean: how he’s doing. You say he’s fine, so then I’ve gotta ask myself, John: are you so damn hungry for revenge that you maybe did something to give yourself an edge? Something I told you not, under any circumstances, to do?”

Realization hit John then, forcing the breath from his lungs in a surprised grunt. Bobby thought he’d taken off the amulet: let the bear in. Thought that the bear was responsible for John losing his temper, and not the fact that the demon had threatened his sons. Had mocked Mary’s memory. Had said she was … was …

 _No. Demons lie. You_ know _that._

Bobby’s suspicion burned in John’s gut, and burned hotter because it was too close to the truth. Too close to what John wanted to do. He took refuge in the guilty anger, growling, “You better not be insinuating what I think you are.”

Bobby tightened his grip on the gun, shifting the muzzle up. “I’m not insinuating, John. I’m asking flat out: did you take that amulet off?”

“I think you can see I’m still wearing it plain enough,” John snapped.

“These’re a one shot deal and you know it,” Bobby said softly.

Yeah, John remembered the talk Bobby had given him: the man had taken him aside and told him in low tones that he was serious about not taking the amulet off. If the thing came off even for a few seconds, the charm would break: wouldn’t catch the second time—not completely—because the spirits would be ready for it. Ready to resist. John hadn’t mentioned it to Dean: boy had already been upset enough, and worrying about what would happen if he accidentally snapped the amulet off wasn’t going to do him any good.

Bobby flipped the gun’s safety off when John didn’t answer right away, and John’s lips twisted sourly.

“No, all right? Jesus Christ, Bobby: you think I’d do that to myself? To Dean?”

“Sometimes I don’t know what the hell you’d be willing to do to yourself. But no, I hoped you’d know better than to put Dean through that.”

Hoped, not known. _This is it,_ John realized, and the certainty was cold in his belly. _This is the last time I’ll be able to come to Bobby for help._ Once he left here, he wasn’t going to be able to come back. If he was allowed to leave in the first place.

“So, are you gonna put the gun away or are you gonna shoot me?” he asked, voice rough.

Bobby hesitated a moment longer and then, reluctantly, thumbed the safety back on and set the gun on the nightstand next to him. “One of these days, you’re gonna cross a line I won’t be able to ignore,” he said, echoing John’s private thoughts.

John nodded. “That day comes, I hope you’ll do me the favor of not shooting me in the back.”

“Oh, I’ll give you a fair warning.”

“Okay, then.” John said, and then hesitated. Part of him wanted to run now, before Bobby changed his mind, but he knew that he needed the man’s help. Needed his expertise. Finally, he asked, “You gonna throw me out on my ass now, or do you want to help me figure this thing out?”

“Damned things are after Sam.” Bobby stood up and cracked his back. “Where do you want to start looking?”

John slid himself to the edge of the bed. There were texts on demons and then there were demonic texts. John hadn’t even cracked most of them, but Bobby had. Bobby had gone through everything he could get his hands on, including a book that John hadn’t ever been able to bring himself to so much as touch. He’d been able to feel evil coming off the thing like heat. But this was for Mary. It was for Sam.

“ _Ars Sanguini Umbraque_. Lucifer’s Bible. We start there.”

Bobby glanced down at him, eyes wide. “Jesus, John, jump in the deep end, why don’t you?”

“It’s Sammy, Bobby. He’s—God, he’s so exposed.” And if John had thought he could make Sam come with him, he would have been on the first plane to Palo Alto. He knew better than that, though: if he showed up on Sam’s door step, Sam’d be more likely to call the cops on him than to listen to what he had to say. John was going to have to watch his youngest on the sly, maybe call in some favors on Sam’s behalf.

Bobby’s hand dropped on his shoulder, startling John from his thoughts. “He’ll be okay,” he said. “Sam’s not a kid anymore, and you trained him pretty good. He can handle himself.”

“Against most things, sure. Against demons?” John grimaced.

“You want me to make a few calls, have some wards set up around his place?”

John nodded. “Thanks.” Bobby shrugged and turned away, heading for the door. “The Bible, Bobby,” John called after him.

Bobby halted in the doorway, stiffening. After a moment, he let out a low sigh. “All right, we’ll start with the _Ars_. But I’m having a few drinks first; can’t look at that damned thing sober.”

“Is it really that bad?”

Bobby shook his head slowly. “You have no fucking idea, John.”

That was probably true enough. But God help him, he was about to learn.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean wasn’t going to Vittoria’s. He wasn’t. Because that Cassie chick was bad news, was some kind of temptress or siren or witch, making him say things he didn’t say. Do things he didn’t do. Telling her his real name. Blushing. He hadn’t blushed since he was in the fifth grade and Suzie Pecoraro had kissed him in the middle of recess.

But for some reason, at ten of six he was standing in front of the restaurant, nervous as hell and wearing his best shirt and the one pair of jeans he owned that weren’t bloodstained or ripped. He waited three minutes and then started to leave. Stopped before he’d reached the Impala and turned around, grumbling to himself under his breath.

The empty motel room rankled him somehow: made him edgy. He didn’t really want to go back there and spend the evening trying to piece together the information he’d dug up today into a coherent whole. And he hadn’t had any kind of meaningful conversation with anyone other than his father in a long time: not since Sam.

It wasn’t like dinner was going to kill him. A meal, a little friendly banter, and then he’d bow out and get back to his notes. He wasn’t going to run away from a girl.

Then he saw Cassie and realized that, in this case, discretion may have been the better part of valor.

She smiled at him tentatively, hands tucked into the pockets of her snug leather jacket. She’d put on some makeup and it made her eyes look even wider: her lashes absurdly long. As he looked at her, Dean felt a sudden urge to reach out and wrap his hands around her waist, see if he could encircle it completely the way he’d speculated he could when he first saw her.

“Hey,” he said, feeling awkward and hating it. He was never awkward around women. Never nervous, either. Then again, he’d always been able to lie to them before. He wondered uneasily what he’d say if she asked about his family, about his job, and couldn’t come up with an answer. _Run now, Winchester, while you still have a chance._

“Hey. I didn’t think you were actually going to show up.”

“I almost didn’t.” Damn it. Was he under some kind of a spell? Was she radiating some kind of truth force field? Hell, stranger things had happened: Dean knew that better than almost anyone.

Cassie tilted her head at him. “I don’t get you. I practically molest you at the library and you track me down to ask me out. Then when I say yes, you act like it was a big mistake and run off on me. What are you doing here, Dean? What am _I_ doing here? Because if you’re just going to freak out and bolt in the middle of dinner, I’d rather skip to the part where we say goodnight, okay?”

“I don’t ‘freak out’,” Dean scowled. He should walk away right now. She was giving him an out, still watching him steadily, waiting for some kind of answer. Temptress. Siren. Succubus, maybe, leading him around by his dick.

“So are we doing this or not?” she asked finally.

He should tell her to forget it, swing by Burger King and then bury himself in newspaper and police copy. But there was something fascinating about her, and he was, well, was lonely, damn it. Hell, everyone needed a little conversation now and then. _She’s just a girl,_ he told himself. _Just a date. I can handle this._

But he made sure to spill salt on her during dinner. Just in case.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Cassie’s dorm room was small and it took exactly three steps to take them from the door to the bed. Not that Dean was counting. He was too busy ridding her of all those pesky layers.

Dinner had been nice, and the kiss outside the restaurant had been better, but he still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up driving her back here. How he’d ended up following her into the building and then up to her room.

 _What am I doing?_ he wondered as he let her push him down onto the bed.

Then Cassie was unzipping his pants and slipping her hand inside and he forgot how to think. Forgot that any words existed outside of ‘yes’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘harder’. She laughed a little as she pulled her hand back and he groaned in protest.

“Are you gonna help me out here, or just lie there and complain?” she asked, tugging at his jeans. Oh. Right. She wanted him to get naked.

Dean sat up and toed his boots off, dropping them onto the floor. He shucked off his shirt as well while Cassie worked at getting his pants and boxers down. Felt the amulet hit his chest and hesitated. Bad idea. This was a really bad idea.

“Cassie …” he started reluctantly.

She glanced up at him as she tugged his pants off completely, bringing his boxers with them. Leaving him naked and obviously real interested despite the warnings his brain was shouting. Only three steps from door to bed, but Dean had been busy enough to get rid of the coat and cobalt lace shirt Cassie had been wearing underneath. There was moonlight coming in through the window, tracing across the swell of her breasts and turning her bra translucent. Catching in her hair, her eyes.

He had to touch. Just a little, and then he’d stop. Wait for Dad to get back like he’d planned. Dean shifted himself closer. Lay kisses along her collarbone, tasting her. Slid his hands down her back and made a frustrated noise when he hit denim instead of skin.

“You too,” he murmured, ducking his head and mouthing her breasts through the black silk. “All of it.”

Cassie pulled away and Dean dropped back onto his elbows. Watched appreciatively as she peeled her jeans off. Then she was crawling on top of him, sleek and wearing nothing but silk panties and that see-through bra.

“Help a girl out,” she invited, slipping one strap off her shoulder. Dean grabbed her. Pulled her down and then rolled them so that she was lying on her back. A long line of heat pushed into him where their bodies touched. He fumbled one hand around underneath her, looking for the clasp on her bra, and slid the other down to rub along the upper edge of her panties. Dipping fingers just underneath the hem: light, teasing touches.

Cassie’s breath hissed out. “Bastard,” she muttered against his neck, rolling her hips against him. He groaned and thrust forward automatically in response, so hard it fucking hurt, and yeah, maybe she had a point about the whole teasing thing.

Dean yanked her bra loose and tossed it carelessly to one side. Locked his lips against hers, shoving his tongue into her mouth and his hand down into her panties at the same time. Cassie made a wild, mewling sound against his lips and pushed up into him as he slid his fingers inside of her. Hot and wet and tight and God it would feel so fucking good to sink into that heat.

Dean bit his lips and pressed harder, shifting his grip and looking for that sweet spot that would make her moan. Knew instantly when he found it because Cassie jerked her head back into the bed and bucked into him, spilling broken little gasps into the air between them. Dean cupped her ass with his free hand and moved her on his fingers in deep, slow rocks.

It was good. It had only been five months and he’d forgotten how good it was, making someone lose it like this. Losing himself in someone like this.

“Damn it, Dean, are you going to fuck me or what?” Cassie demanded, her hips shuddering uncontrollably under his hands.

“Just being a gentleman,” he said, and then grunted because she’d managed to get one of her hands between them and had wrapped it around his dick, just this side of painfully tight.

“Fucking now, gentleman later,” she told him. Twisted her wrist, slipping her thumb across the head, and Jesus Christ that felt fucking _fantastic_.

There were all sorts of reasons to do what he’d been planning and stop this before it went any further. There was the amulet, for one, and Dad was hundreds of miles away if it chose now to fizzle out. He also hadn’t given Cassie his usual, ‘here today, gone tomorrow’ addendum: God only knew what she was expecting out of this. And then there was whatever was going on in his own head because he’d told her his name, he’d told her as much of the truth as he could manage at dinner, and he was beginning to suspect that he didn’t really know what he wanted out of this either.

But she’d given him a direct order, and Dean Winchester had never been a man to disobey orders.

“Yes, ma’am.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

John woke up to a room filled with sunlight and winced, rolling over and pressing his face into the pillow. His head was pounding, filled with dry heat, and there was a foul taste of ash and vomit mingled with Wild Turkey in his mouth. He almost puked again just thinking about it.

The _Ars Sanguini Umbraque_ had been as bad as Bobby had said: worse than John had been expecting. The words had a way of getting inside your head: pregnant, blind maggots that rooted around in your brain and laid eggs. Eggs that had hatched into bloody, raw dreams.

Dreams of Sam, with a demon’s black eyes, inflicting stomach-turning horrors on the world. On women and children. On his brother. Dreams of giving in to the bear, only to rip his own children to shreds: their blood underneath his nails, in his mouth.

John pushed himself up and winced at the light. It hurt, but it was better than huddling in the dark with the afterimages of those nightmares. He scrubbed a hand over his face, felt stubble and realized that it was probably time to shave again.

Bobby was waiting for him in the kitchen, drinking black coffee and taking swigs of whiskey from the nearly empty bottle between sips. He squinted up at John and gestured over his shoulder at the counter. “Coffee’s there. You look like hell, John.”

“Hate to break it to you, Bobby, but you’re not gonna be winning any beauty pageants yourself right now.” John poured himself a large cup of caffeine and then shuffled over to join Bobby at the table. Bobby passed him the bottle and John took it. Poured a shot down his throat and handed it back.

“How’d you sleep?” Bobby asked. His voice was shrewd, even though he still looked mostly asleep and was well on his way to being drunk again.

“Not well,” John admitted.

Bobby nodded. “Yeah.” He tossed back a long swallow of the Wild Turkey, coffee lying forgotten in front of him. “I hate that book, John. If I knew how to destroy it, I would. In a fucking heartbeat. And don’t give me any shit about destroying valuable resources. If you were me, you wouldn’t want the damned thing around either.”

No, he wouldn’t. Lucifer’s Bible was a pestilence. Bobby was right: it should be destroyed. John didn’t think he’d be turning the lights off at night for a while, not with the things he’d read still running around inside his mind.

“Is there anything else?” he asked, sipping on his coffee and ignoring the fact that it was scalding his tongue. “Any other place we can look?”

“Sure, lots of places.” Bobby’s chair creaked as he shifted his weight. “But if what we’re looking for isn’t in the _Ars_ , it’s probably not anywhere.” He sighed and peered down the mouth of the bottle. “No, it’s in there somewhere. We just don’t know what we’re looking for.”

“If I ...” John put down the mug and rested his hands on the table. “If I can find some more information, narrow things down a bit, you think that’ll help?”

Bobby’s eyes went wide. “You can’t actually be thinking of going back in there!”

God, but John wished he wasn’t. Wished there was another way. But it didn’t look as though he had a choice in the matter. “You said it yourself, Bobby: the answers are there. I just need to know what I’m looking for.”

Bobby scowled and polished off the bottle. “You look too long and you’ll drive yourself insane.”

After the things he’d seen last night—after the alternative he’d been considering had morphed from a nagging whisper to a scream in his head—John wasn’t sure that particular warning wasn’t a little late. He polished off the last of his coffee and then pushed himself to his feet. “That’s my problem, Bobby.”

“John, maybe you should just—”

“Just what? Just let them take him? Let them have Sammy?” Glaring, he slammed his hands down on the table and leaned across. “I’ll be damned before I let that happen. You don’t have any children, Bobby. You have no idea what I’d be willing to do to keep my boys safe.”

Bobby didn’t move, didn’t shout back the way John wanted him to. He just dropped his bleary eyes a little, to the amulet that had swung free from John’s shirt, and said, “I think I may have an inkling.”

“You son of a bitch.” Fury surged through John, burning through the last vestiges of his night terrors. “I haven’t done anything and you know it!” _Yet_. He hadn't said it, but they both heard it.

“Maybe you’d better take a walk,” Bobby suggested.

“No.” John pushed himself back from the table, giving them both some needed distance. “No, I’m leaving. There’s no reason for me to stay: we aren’t gonna find what I need to know without some more information.”

Bobby climbed slowly to his feet and ambled toward the cabinets. “You heading back to Athens?”

John shook his head. “If I go back now, Dean’ll be able to tell something’s up. I need to give myself a few days, wrap my head around this.” He needed the time to make a decision. The amulet was a leaden weight around his neck.

Bobby used one hand to steady himself against the counter while he rooted around in the cupboard. “You don’t think he ought to know?”

“No.” John glanced down at his wedding band. Ran his fingers across it lightly. “Dean’s—he’s still getting over Sam leaving. If I tell him about this, he’ll go haring off and get himself killed, or worse. Best to leave it for now.”

“He’s old enough to make his own decisions,” Bobby noted, leaning his forehead against the cabinets and looking at John sideways.

“You tell him, Bobby, and they’ll have to invent a new word for what I’m gonna do to you,” John growled. And then, as Bobby narrowed his eyes, he added, more calmly, “This isn’t any of your business.”

Bobby snorted and went back to rummaging in his cupboards. “We’re talking about a war here, John. It’s everybody’s business.”

“I know that. Just—” John dragged a hand through his hair. “Just give me some time. Wait until we have a better idea what we’re up against.” Bobby glanced over at him, brow furrowed in uneasy doubt, and John forced himself to add, “Please, Bobby. I’m asking you as a friend.”

Bobby’s face darkened at that, but he nodded. “Okay, I won’t go out of my way to tell him. But if he asks, I’m not gonna lie for you.”

“That’s fine,” John said, relaxing. “Thanks, Bobby.” He turned toward the door and then paused. Glanced back. “What are you gonna do now?”

Bobby lifted the unopened bottle of Wild Turkey he’d finally fished out of the cupboard and tipped it toward John in a salute. “I’m gonna stay good and drunk for a few days. ‘Til I can close my eyes without seeing that damned book. Haven’t thought much past that.”

John knew he should just leave it at that and go, but morbid curiosity prodded him into asking, “What did you dream last night?”

Bobby grunted, opening the bottle and taking a long draw from the mouth. “Don’t ask questions you can’t answer yourself, John.”

Shifting his weight awkwardly, John cleared his throat. “You take care. I’ll call when I know more.”

“You do that. And, John? It isn’t worth it. Giving up your soul to that thing isn’t worth it, you hear me? There are other ways to do this.”

John resisted the urge to reach up and touch the amulet. Kept his face blank as he knew how. He could hear the demon’s mocking words in his head: _‘You’re right, you know. You can’t face what’s coming without it.’_

Everyone knew that demons lied. Thing of it was, sometimes they told the truth. When it would fuck with you: hurt you. And if there was anything that hurt John more than the thought he’d have to give up his sons to win this thing, John didn’t know what it was.

So he figured it had been telling the truth about the bear, because letting the damned thing in would mean giving Dean up: letting him go. John couldn’t be around his son when he was more beast than man. His dreams had shown him that much.

“Damn it, John!” Bobby snapped crossly. “Did you hear what I said? _It isn’t worth it_.”

“Goodbye, Bobby.” This time, when he turned to leave, John didn’t look back.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

John drove the rental car south to the Black Hills. Found a decent, locally owned motel that wouldn’t look too closely at the card he used to pay for the room with: one week up front. He spent a lot of time not thinking about what he was doing, but after three days of hiking, searching for a sheltered, isolated place, he couldn’t hide it from himself any more.

He’d had a replica of the amulet made by a local jeweler. The man had looked at him funny when John had refused to take the amulet off while he examined it, but the thousand in cash—drawn from his emergency account—had worked wonders on the man’s attitude and willingness to rush the job. It wasn’t a perfect duplicate—different materials, for one—but it was close enough to hold up to a good deal of scrutiny. And John didn’t want to take the chance that putting Bobby’s amulet back on would weaken him. Weaken the bear.

Even after he had come to terms with his plans, John still refused to admit to the reason he’d had that replica made. It was only at night, while he hovered on the border between sleep and waking, that it sometimes slipped out: half-hopes that even his subconscious refused to complete.

 _If it doesn’t destroy me … If I can control it … If it isn’t as bad as we thought …_ And deeper, underneath everything, there was always Dean’s face. Dean’s faith in him. Dean’s trust that he would always be there.

If John didn’t have to trade his son for the bear, he wasn’t going to.

In the daylight, he knew that it was false hope. He reminded himself that he had come here to throw his life away. To sever all ties and devote himself to pursuing the truth. Pursuing the answers he needed to avenge Mary and save Sammy.

He could have waited. Could have spent a few months digging around through the usual channels. But he didn’t know if he had the luxury of time: didn’t know how far along the demons were in their plans. And he was going to need the extra strength, speed and stamina where he was going.

John Winchester was going to hunt down as many of those demonic sons of bitches as he could find, and he was going to get his answers. He was going to immerse himself in scum, in blood, in filth, and on the other side of everything he was going to come out with a way to save his son. He needed the bear. _Sam_ needed the bear. John was too old—too tired—to do this on his own.

It was Sunday and four days of searching when he finally find the right place. Plenty of water. Isolated. Large, empty cave. If things went sideways for a while, he’d be able to keep himself alive and he wouldn’t be a danger to anyone else. Short of having someone stand there with a gun on him when he did it—and there wasn’t anyone he trusted enough to do that for him—this was the safest way he could figure to let the bear loose.

John stood at the mouth of the cave, looking at the sky through the treetops. A terrible resolve filled him, leaving him calm inside. At peace.

 _Tomorrow._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On Monday morning, Dean woke to Cassie licking a long, wet line up his stomach and chest. As far as wakeup calls went, it didn’t suck. He reached down and pulled her up. Kissed her because, even after a week, he really couldn’t get enough of doing that. Of having the leisure to map a woman’s mouth out with his own.

“Morning,” she said when they finally had to come up for air.

“Mmm.”

“So I was thinking, if you wanted, when I get out of class today we could drive over to Columbus. Take in some of the sights, stay the night. I have a friend there who’s got a spare room in her apartment.”

It sounded great. Sounded relaxing. Unfortunately, yesterday Dean had finally narrowed down the revenant’s location to one of two cemeteries, and today he was going to shorten the list to one. Take the son of a bitch out tonight before it killed someone else and added another death to his conscience. He already felt guilty enough about the man it had killed two nights ago.

“I can’t,” he said reluctantly. “I have to work tonight.”

“Oh.” Cassie dropped her head onto his shoulder and draped one arm across his stomach. “I can’t believe I haven’t asked before now, but where do you work?”

 _Usually cemeteries and abandoned buildings._ It was on the tip of his tongue, the way it always was when he was with her. Six days since their first date, and each day he was that much closer to just doing it. Just sitting her down and telling her everything. Dad would kill him where he stood.

“It’s complicated,” Dean said finally. He wasn’t ready to tell her, not yet, but he still couldn’t lie. Hadn’t been able to lie all week, which had been really interesting when she’d asked him if he had any siblings. Talking about Sam was like navigating a minefield.

Cassie twisted a little, looking up at him. “How is it complicated?”

“I’ll tell you later, okay? It’s just—it’s a little early to be having this conversation.”

“What conversation?” Now she was sitting up and frowning at him. “All I asked was where you worked. It’s not a difficult question.”

Dean knew that he should just tell her a nice, glib lie—there were six or seven floating around in his head right now—but instead he sighed, and said, “Look, we’ve only known each other for a week. Can’t we just take it slow?”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Occupations are usually a first date question, Dean.”

“Should’ve asked on the first date then.” Which was definitely the wrong thing to say because she was climbing over him and off the bed and grabbing for her robe.

“Get out,” Cassie snapped, pulling it closed around her.

“What the hell did I do?”

“I don’t know who you _are_ , Dean! I don’t … God, I don’t know what I’m doing here.” She crossed her arms against her chest, hugging herself. “You could be some kind of—of psychotic axe murderer, for all I know, and I don’t do this, okay? I don’t sleep with strange men who picked me up in the library. I don’t skip classes, and I’m pretty sure that if you don’t get out of here right now I’m going to be skipping this one because… because …”

Then she was on top of him again, kissing him like she was trying to push inside of his skin, trying to lick the secrets out of him. Stunned and confused, Dean just lay there for a few seconds. Then she adjusted herself, straddling his hips, and his dick certainly knew what was going on, even if his head was having trouble keeping up. But yeah, okay, Cassie on top of him. Dean’s arms came up and he ran them along her back beneath the robe. This was definitely better than fighting.

“You drive me so damned crazy,” Cassie panted, pushing back down against him. “Why can’t I—everything I say around you comes out backwards, or garbled, and I know you aren’t going to believe me, but I’m usually very articulate.”

“Sure I believe you,” Dean assured her. He ducked his head and bite gently at her neck.

“Dean, I … what are we doing?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I was planning on having sex.” He pushed the robe off her shoulders and kissed the hollow of her throat.

“I meant us. In general. What are we—”

He stopped her mouth by covering it with his own. Kissed her like he meant it, trying to show her that it was all right. Slid his hands down to her ass and pulled her more firmly against him. When he came up for air, both of their lips were swollen and she was trembling. Flushed.

“Okay?” he asked, and thrust up once to accentuate his meaning.

She nodded, breath coming out in a shaky exhale. “Okay.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Cassie was showering when Dean’s phone rang forty minutes later. He scrambled through the pile of their clothes to find his coat and dug it out. “Hello?”

“Hey, Dean.”

“Dad.” Dean stood up straighter instinctually. “Where are you? Are you coming back today?”

John sighed. “Not yet. There’s a few more things I have to do first. I wanted to call and find out if you’d taken care of the revenant yet.”

“I’m wasting it tonight.”

“You should have handled it by now.”

Dean shifted his weight, hating the way his chest tightened painfully at the rebuke. “There’s a lot of activity here. It took me a while to pinpoint where it’s been rising from.”

“I understand that, son. But you need to be better than this. There’s a hell of a lot of stuff looking to tear you apart out there, if you give it half a chance.”

Dean pressed his eyes shut. “I know. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll do better next time.” The words tasted acidic in his mouth.

“Good. You watch your back out there tonight, okay?” John’s voice was softer now: the reprimand was over, he was forgiven. Looking at his clothes strewn around Cassie’s room, and thinking about the fact that he hadn’t been back to the motel for more than five minutes at a time since he’d met her, Dean wasn’t sure that he deserved to be.

 _People are dying out there, and I’m in here doing what, exactly?_ Rationally, he knew that spending his nights with Cassie hadn’t interfered with the job, but … He’d been here two nights ago, sleeping heavy and content with his arms around her, while somewhere out in the darkness, the revenant had been killing again. Killing because Dad was right and Dean hadn’t been fast enough, smart enough. Hadn’t been good enough.

“Son, you hear me?” John’s voice was sharper, on the edge of displeased that Dean hadn’t answered him yet.

Dean swallowed his guilt and answered, “Yeah, Dad. I’m always careful.”

There was a pause, and then John said brusquely, “There’s some new credit cards in the P.O. Box. I want you to pick them up when the job’s done.”

Dean frowned. “You don’t want me to wait here for you?”

“I might be a while. I don’t want you running out of money.” His father sounded strangely hesitant.

Dean’s stomach twisted with unease and he said in a rush, “It’s not a problem. I’ll just hit up a pool hall or something. Lots of rich frat boys around here.” And then he was left hanging, gripping the cell phone painfully tight, while his father was silent on the other end. “Dad?”

John cleared his throat. “All right. I just wanted you to know the cards were there. If you needed them.”

This whole conversation felt wrong. _Was_ wrong. “Dad, are you—” He hesitated and then asked, “You’re okay, right?”

“I’m fine, son,” John assured him, but his voice was only that warm—that gentle—when things were really bad. The last time Dean had heard his father sound like this, he’d been chained down to a bed with a wolf crawling around in his head.

 _What’s wrong? What are you not telling me?_ But he thought he already knew.

“I’ve gotta go,” John continued. “Watch yourself, okay? And if you run into anything you can’t handle, you call Caleb or Jim.”

Dean was more than a little nervous now and, childish or not, he needed his father to tell him that he was imagining things. “You’ll be home in a few days, right, Dad?” he asked. His heart was beating too quickly; his skin was cold. But the line was silent: empty. John had already hung up.

Dean lowered the phone slowly, staring out Cassie’s window. Dad had sounded … sounded … _He sounded like he wasn’t planning on coming back, is what._

Panic rushed up, filling him, and it hurt like hell. Made it difficult to breathe. Dean told himself that he was just being paranoid: that Dad was coming back. John wouldn’t leave Dean here, leave him alone. Not after he’d already sent Sammy away.

Dean heard Cassie come back in and didn’t turn around. Felt her hands slip around his waist and didn’t move.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the view, but you’re giving my neighbors quite a show, if anyone’s looking.” She tugged him backwards, away from the window. “Who are you calling?”

“No one. My dad called.” _He isn’t leaving. He can’t._

“Oh?”

Dean couldn’t think about it anymore. Couldn’t sit here and wonder whether he’d actually heard ‘goodbye’ in his father’s words or if he was just imagining things. He turned around and Cassie was there, toweling her hair dry. He reached for her, wrapped one hand around her wrist and pulled her close.

Surprised, she dropped the towel and pressed her hands against his chest. “What, again? Not that I’m complaining, mind …”

Later, when he was above her, thrusting into her, she brushed her hands across his cheeks. Smoothed away the tears. “Shh,” she murmured, rocking up to meet him. “Shh, it’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

But Dean knew, even as he lost himself in the mind-numbing wash of pleasure, that it really wasn’t.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

John’s cheeks were wet when he hung up and dropped the phone into the brush. He’d told himself not to call, to just let things slip away quietly, but in the end he hadn’t been able to. Had needed to hear his son’s voice one last time: to know that Dean would be all right on his own. But he hadn’t been able to hold it together well enough, and Dean had sensed that something was wrong.

John cradled his head in his hands. Dean had sounded so goddamn lost. Frightened. _What the hell have I done to him?_

His chest clenched and he considered forgetting about it. Just gathering all the supplies together and going back to Athens. He’d show up at the motel and Dean would be relieved to see him and everything would be fine.

Until the demons came. Until they went after Sam. Until they killed John and took Dean for some kind of … of living toy.

No. Stopping now—giving in to the hard lump in his throat—would only delay things. Would only make it worse in the end.

John’s hand was shaking as he closed it around cool metal. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he whispered, and jerked the amulet free.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean kept expecting Cassie to ask him about it, but she never did. She held him after, one hand running continuously through his hair, the other entwined with one of his. When he couldn’t stand it any more, he slid out of her bed and got dressed. He didn’t say anything, and she just lay there, watching him, until he had one hand on the doorknob.

“Dean.”

He tensed at the sound of her voice, waiting for the questions to start, but all she said was, “Call me later, okay?”

Dean mumbled something noncommittal and ran for it.

He spent the rest of the day shut up in the motel room, cleaning the weapons and shuffling half-heartedly through his notes. He told himself not to think about it. Not to think about Sam. About Dad. He told himself not to think about that night a little over a year ago, when the three of them had been sharing a bottle of Jim Bean and watching fireworks burst in brilliant colors over Frank Garrity’s fields. Or about Dad sitting up with him when he’d almost been gutted by an ill-tempered ghoul. Or about showing Sam how to hold a gun: how not to get knocked over by the recoil.

And sometime between dinner and leaving to take care of the revenant, Dean decided to be angry. Sam was an asshole for running out on him and Dad. Dad was a bastard for ditching Dean without a word of warning. Well, fuck them both. He didn’t need them. He could take care of himself.

But as soon as he stood over the smoking husk of the revenant, and realized that there was no one to celebrate his first solo kill with, all of that anger spilled away.

Dean spent the next two days in a daze. He checked over the Impala, repaired and washed all of his clothing, cleaned weapons that didn’t really need it anymore, and flipped through the newspapers in search of another job. There were several decent prospects, but Dean couldn’t seem to work up the motivation to pack up and head out.

The first night, he went out and hustled a little pool. Broke the nose of the wiseass frat boy who accused him of cheating. The second night, he called Sam. Waited until his brother answered and then hung up. He didn’t try calling his father because he was afraid that John wouldn’t bother picking up at all.

On the morning of the third day, he woke up and the world didn’t feel like it was going to crush him. He could sense the depressed anxiety hovering just out of sight, and knew it would be back, but for now he only felt a little tired. He rolled out of bed and considered calling Cassie.

In the end, feeling awkward and guilty for going all nutty and then disappearing on her, Dean waited until he knew she was supposed to be in class before dialing. He intended to drop the ball in her court by leaving a short, bullshit apology in her voicemail, but after the third ring she picked up, sounding breathless and alert.

“Dean?”

“Uh, Cassie. I—I thought you had class.”

“I did. I mean, I do. But I was worried about you. And I missed your voice.”

For the first time since that initial, horrible day, Dean felt his stomach settle. “I had a family thing,” he said clumsily.

“Okay. Do you—are you back now? Did you want to get together?”

Yes. God, yes. Someone who actually gave a damn about him: about what he wanted. “Sure; sounds like a good idea. You want to go out or stay in? I vote for in.”

“You only want to stay in because you’re hoping to get laid,” she accused.

“Actually, I was planning on bartering my body for food: I’m kinda broke right now.” She laughed at that, which was what he’d been going for. Dean felt the ache in his chest ease at the sound. “So are you gonna feed me?” he prodded.

“Fine.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Meet me at five?”

“Can’t wait that long. Your place. Twenty minutes.”

“You have got to be kidding me. I’m in the middle of class, Dean.”

“You always have conversations with your boyfriend in the middle of class?”

“I came out in the hall—Wait, did you just call yourself my boyfriend?”

Oh shit. That had just slipped out. He hadn’t meant it, had he?

“Dean?” Cassie’s voice was softer. Gentle. “It’s okay, you know. Because I do like you. In case you hadn’t noticed, what with all the sex and the kissing.”

Like he hadn’t noticed the sex. He’d just thought—well, okay, he hadn’t really been _thinking_ much of anything. He’d been deliberately not thinking about what he was doing with Cassie, even before Dad’s last phone call. And now he’d gone and fucked everything up by … _No. I didn’t. I did_ not _fall in love with her._

“You’re not freaking out on me again, are you?” Cassie asked. “You want to back this up, pretend we never said anything about it?”

Oh _hell_ yeah. “No. No, I—yeah, we’re dating.” She was silent so long that Dean thought he’d lost the call, and said nervously, “Cassie? You there?”

“Twenty minutes, Dean,” she breathed. “And you’d better not be late or I’m starting by myself.”

Dean broke about ten traffic laws getting to Cassie’s, and when she opened the door, naked except for the sheet wrapped around her body, he nearly knocked both of them over as he lifted her off her feet and stumbled into her room. When they sank down onto the bed together, Dean did his best to keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t keep from saying it with his eyes. With the way he rocked into her, slow and steady like he was coming home. _Want you. Need you. Love you._

When he bit into her shoulder it was as close to begging as he had ever come: _don’t leave me. Oh God, Cassie, stay. Just stay._

And he didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until she arched up into him and whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean ended up taking Cassie out for dinner after all, mainly because he thought he would be better able to control his mouth if they were in public. Not make any more embarrassing declarations for the rest of the night at least. He pulled out the last of his cash from the pool hall the other night and took her to a decent Chinese restaurant down the street.

When the check came, Dean thought briefly of the way Sam had always stolen his fortune cookie when they were kids. His face must have fallen a little because Cassie immediately leaned over and rubbed his knee underneath the table. Smiled at him.

Dean smiled back and let the memory go.

When they got back to her dorm, Dean dropped into Cassie’s computer chair and let her massage his back. Grunted in pleasure as she dug into the muscles with surprising strength. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a massage, and it was practically orgasmic to feel the knots that had accumulated over the past year or so loosening under her hands.

The radio was tuned to some local indie rock station that wasn’t half bad, and Dean found himself tapping his foot to the beat. He drifted lazily as Cassie slid around in front of him. Let his mouth drop open into a loose smile as her hands stopped kneading and started stripping him. His shirt fell on the floor next to them and then her fingers were trailing circles across his bare stomach before moving higher, toying with his nipples on their path upward. He was enjoying the caress, enjoying the novel sensation of being completely relaxed and content, when he realized what she was doing.

Dean snapped to attention immediately, his hands coming up and clamping over Cassie’s wrists. “That doesn’t come off,” he growled.

Cassie’s eyes widened and she let go of the amulet. “Okay.”

The danger was past, but his heart was hammering wildly in his chest, and all the muscles Cassie had just loosened were knotting again. Dean could see questions rising in her face: in the way she was pursing her lips and tilting her head a little. He wasn’t ready for this—not now, when everything was so new and raw—but if she asked he’d tell her. He knew he would.

Cassie opened her mouth and Dean dove forward, blocked her words with his tongue. The kiss was violent: rough and needy. _Come on, come on. Let it go._ He released her wrists. Slid his hands down to cup her ass and pulled her into the chair on his lap. _Just let it go._ He rocked up into her, hard and deliberate, and she gasped against his mouth. He held her close with his left hand. Used his right to start fumbling her pants open.

Cassie broke the kiss, her breathing shallow and her eyes hazy. “You’re going to have to tell me sometime,” she murmured, and then dropped her head back as he finally got her zipper down and shoved his hand inside.

“Later.” Dean pushed his fingers around the side of her panties, brushed against fevered skin. The trick was not to give her time to think of anything but him: what he was doing to her. Cassie shuddered against him as he pressed his mouth against the side of her neck and bit down. Her hands came up and gripped his arms, holding on for support as he thrust first one finger and then another inside her.

“Later,” she breathed out in agreement.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Cassie seemed to have forgotten about it in the morning, but Dean made sure to wear the amulet underneath his shirt anyway. Out of sight, out of mind. He ambushed her when she was coming back from the shower and convinced her to skip her classes and go for a drive with him instead.

They spent the day driving around the countryside surrounding Athens, with the early autumn air blowing in through the open windows. Dean reveled in the novelty of sharing the front seat with someone who didn’t spend half their time critiquing his driving skills, and the other half quizzing him on ammo types and goblin subspecies. Cassie smiled and leaned back, idly tracing her hand over the window ledge.

She called the Impala a beauty and asked him how it handled, even though Dean could tell she didn’t really know anything about cars. He kept his answer as short as he could manage and tried to figure out how this had happened. A small part of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop: was waiting for him to screw it up the same way he always did. Mostly, though, he was just sick of worrying about everything.

Later, they ordered pizza and lay curled in her bed together, watching all three Star Wars movies back to back. Dean fell asleep to the sound of Ewok jabber and with his face pressed against her hair. For the first time in a long time, he slept soundly without a knife under his pillow.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean was humming to himself as he pulled up in front of the motel. It was Monday again and Cassie was back in class—had very firmly told him that, while he was infinitely more interesting than Ethics and Morality, fucking him wasn’t going to help her pass the class. So Dean had a few hours to kill, and he’d figured that he would go back to the motel, exchange his bag of dirty clothes for some clean ones. And then he’d use the rest of his free time to find another job in the area.

Spending so much time with Cassie was wonderful, but he’d been restless the past few days. He missed hunting: felt like he was abandoning the people out there who needed his help. Dean figured it wouldn’t be too hard to find a job nearby, though. Athens was full of nasty things just waiting for an opportunity to get out of control. If he was going to be in town for a while, he could clean some of that shit up, maybe lower the local mortality rate a little. And he’d get to stay near Cassie, which would give them a chance to figure out where this thing they had was going.

Dean unlocked the door to his room and pulled it open. Looked up and froze. A deep, bitter ache blossomed inside his chest, battering through the walls he’d put around it. He felt his eyes start to burn and blinked rapidly. He was not going to cry. He was fine. He was calm and collected.

But when he spoke, his voice was rough. “Dad.”

John just looked at him, face half-hidden in the shadowed room so that Dean couldn’t read his expression. Dean forced himself to start moving again, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. Then he turned around and searched awkwardly for something to say. Something that wouldn’t sound like an accusation. That wouldn’t make him sound paranoid.

Finally, he settled on, “You’re here.”

John pushed himself out of the chair he’d been sprawled in and walked forward deliberately. Dean shifted his weight nervously at his father’s silent approach: he couldn’t tell what kind of mood John was in, didn’t know what he was thinking. Looking into his father’s dark eyes, Dean wondered if he had just come back to get the Impala. To pack up a few of the guns.

John came to a stop a few feet away and planted his feet firmly on the floor. “You weren’t,” he rumbled. “Where the hell have you been?”

Dean hesitated, not sure that his father would approve of what he’d been doing these past few weeks, and John moved closer. Tilted his head and inhaled slowly through his nose. Dean edged back uncertainly. Had Dad just … sniffed him?

John’s mouth twisted and he turned away abruptly. “Never mind. I think I can guess.” His tone was neutral, and his posture relaxed as he dropped back into the chair by the curtained window. Dean found himself calming as his foundations settled back into place. Dad was here. He wasn’t leaving. Everything was going to be fine.

“You take care of the revenant?” John asked, picking up his journal from the table and leafing through it.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I found us a job in Flagstaff. Pack your stuff up and we’ll get going.”

Dean stiffened. Wait, what? Already? He didn’t know why he was surprised: Dad had never been one for hanging around after the job was done. Dean supposed he’d been blindsided by the relief of having his father back. Hadn’t had a chance to consider what that meant for him. For him and Cassie.

A protest bubbled up inside of him and he clamped his jaw shut. He had to word this carefully. He had to let Dad know it was important to him without pissing the man off. Without picking at the sores Sam’s defection had left. But it wasn’t like Dean wanted to stop hunting: he just wanted to localize their operation for a while.

Dean was taking too long because John glanced up from his journal, frowning, and said, “Now, Dean.”

 _Oh hell, Winchester, just spit it out._ “I was thinking,” he started. “Maybe we could do some jobs around here for a while. There’s this ghost over on Pembrook, and—”

“We’re going to Flagstaff,” John interrupted. “Now get your shit together.” When Dean continued to hesitate, he scowled and added, “That’s an order, Dean.”

“Maybe you can go to Flagstaff and meet back up with me here after the job’s done?”

John dropped his journal on the table next to him with a frustrated movement. “What the hell is this? I leave for two weeks and you think you don’t have to listen to me anymore? You’ve got five minutes to get your ass out to the car. After that, we’re gonna have some words.”

“Dad, I—Look, there’s someone here, and I think I might really have a shot at having something with her.”

“You don’t want to leave because of a _girl_?” John’s face was incredulous.

“Her name’s Cas—”

“I don’t give a damn what her name is,” John spat, shoving himself to his feet. “I said we’re going to Flagstaff, so that’s where we’re going. We have business there.”

“We have business here, too,” Dean protested. “There’s lots of—”

And then Dad was right in front of him, was grabbing him by the shirt and slamming him into the wall hard enough that Dean’s breath rushed out in a surprised grunt. Dismay crashed into his gut and acidic fear crawled up the back of his throat. He’d never seen his father like this: Dad had never laid a hand on him before. Not unless they were sparring. But Dean could tell from the wild gleam in John’s eyes that the man was a heartbeat away from breaking his face.

“You’re going to Flagstaff,” John growled. “You’re _my son_ , and you’re not going to stay here and play house with some slut.”

Dean jerked as though his father had actually wound up and punched him. His stomach ached as though he had. “Cassie’s not a—”

John pulled him forward a little and then shoved him back against the wall, and Dean’s head collided with it painfully. “No? How much did it take to tumble her into bed, Dean? Two beers? Three?”

Dean reached up to pry himself free and John slapped his hands away. “Dad, please—” Then his air supply was cut off as his father wrapped one hand around his throat and pushed. Dean’s hands came up again and he was shaken roughly for his trouble.

“Shut up and stay still,” John ordered.

Even now, even with Dad’s hand choking him, Dean felt his body relax. Felt himself obey. And he was pathetically grateful that Sammy wasn’t here to see this.

 _What the fuck is wrong with him? God, what—_ Dean’s eyes widened suddenly and he glanced down, looking for the amulet. He was suddenly sure that something had happened. That Dad had been attacked and it had been snapped loose, that it had fallen off. That he was trapped in here with something that looked like his father but wasn’t anymore.

But the bull-horned head was still there. Still securely fastened. And Dean was starting to get lightheaded from the loss of air.

 _Holy shit, he’s going to kill me._

Then the hand was gone, Dad was stepping back, and Dean dropped to his knees. He coughed, dragging in fresh gulps of air as quickly as he could. Stared down at the carpet, trying to understand what the hell was happening. Dean felt his father crouch next to him. Felt the brush of a hand on his back and flinched away.

John pulled back immediately. “God, Dean— _son_ —I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Can you talk?”

Dean shut his eyes against the fierce roil of confused pain slicing through his chest. Dad sounded so guilty. So concerned. But just a few seconds ago he’d been …

Dean tilted his head further away from his father. Felt a tear slip through his defenses and hated it. “’M fine,” he choked out.

“Dean, I—this is important, son,” John’s voice was soft: consoling. “This job in Flagstaff—it’s a lead. May give us some information on the thing that killed your mother. I need you with me on this. I need you there backing me up.”

The thing that killed Mom. Dad’s great crusade. Dean should have known. Had always half-suspected that one day Dad’s need for vengeance would push him too far. He’d just never imagined that he would end up on the receiving end of his father’s desperation.

For a brief, nauseating moment, Dean hated his mother for dying and turning Dad into this shell. He hated her for turning Dad into this man who sometimes had trouble remembering that there were things in the world other than revenge.

“Can I count on you, son?”

“Yes, sir.” There it was again: that knee-jerk obedience that Dean couldn’t control. Bitter despair filled him as he realized that Dad would always be able to count on him—that the answer to any question or request would always be the same. Dean tried not to think of how raw his throat felt. Of how there would be a bruise there in a few hours.

“Good.” John wrapped his hand around Dean’s arm and Dean forced himself not to shrink away. Let his father pull him to his feet. Then Dad’s arms were around him, crushing him in a tight hug. “I’m sorry, Dean-o,” he murmured in Dean’s ear. “You know I’d never hurt you, right?”

 _You just did._ But Dean only whispered, “Yeah, Dad. I know.”

“Okay. Good. That’s real good.” John pulled back and he was smiling. Eyes soft and fond. “You go see this girl if you need to: tie things up here. I’ll pack and we can leave when you’re done.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean was waiting in Cassie’s room when she got back from class. She jumped and let out a little shriek when she saw him, then slumped against the doorframe. “Jesus, Dean! How did you get in here? I thought I locked the door.”

She had, but it hadn’t been difficult to pick. Dean lifted his shoulders in a small shrug and said, “Guess you forgot.” His voice sounded like something that had been through a meat grinder and Cassie’s eyes widened in concern.

“Are you okay?” She shoved the door shut and hurried over to him, wincing as she got a look at his throat. “God, Dean, who did this to you?”

Dean cut his eyes away from hers: couldn’t stand to see the pity there. “Got in a scuffle with a mugger. It’s not important.”

“Not impor—of course it’s important!” She frowned. “We have to call the police.”

He grabbed her hand as she started to turn away. “Wait. We have to talk.”

“We can talk la—”

“ _Now_.” He tightened his grip on her wrist, pulling her over. Sat her on the bed, ignoring her protests, and stood in front of her.

“Dean, I’m serious: we need to call someone. You need to get that looked at, and—”

“I’m leaving, Cassie.” Best to just get it out there in the open.

Cassie cut herself off sharply, face going wary. “What do you mean, ‘you’re leaving’? Why?”

“You remember when you asked me what I did? Where I worked? I have a job I have to do. In Flagstaff. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. It could—it could be a while.”

“What kind of a job, Dean? It isn’t—are you some kind of—” She glanced back at her door, suspicion dawning on her face. “—of thief, or—”

He shook his head quickly. “No, nothing like that. Look, when I was four years old my mom died in this fire. Only it wasn’t a normal fire: something killed her.”

“Some _thing_ ,” Cassie repeated slowly.

“My dad, he took Sam and me and he went after it. Went after other things like it. He taught us to do the same: to hunt these things down and kill them. It’s what I do—what we do.”

Dean couldn’t read Cassie’s face: couldn’t tell what she was thinking when she said, “And by ‘things’ you mean …”

“Ghosts. Werewolves. Stuff nightmares are made out of.”

“You hunt ghosts.”

“Me and my dad, yeah.”

“And you’re leaving to hunt ghosts in Flagstaff with your dad.”

“I don’t know. Maybe a ghost, maybe something else. My dad says there’s a lead on the thing that killed my—”

“Stop it.”

Dean blinked at her. “What?”

Cassie shook her head, mouth drawn into a thin line, and pushed up to her feet. Paced away from him. “I can’t … I can’t _believe_ you!”

He trailed after her and said earnestly, “Look, I know it sounds pretty out there, but—”

She spun back to him, and Dean recognized the look on her face now. Anger, bright and fierce. Directed at him. “You could at least have had the decency to come up with a decent excuse!”

He reached for her. “Cassie, I don’t know what you’re—”

“Get the hell out, Dean.” She pulled away from him, hugging her chest, and he followed. Everything would be fine if he could just get his arms around her: if he could _show_ her what he meant—that he didn’t _want_ to leave—because this talking thing had never gone well for him.

“Cass—”

She slapped him.

Dean stood there, cheek stinging. He waited to feel something—anything—but there was only a heavy exhaustion settling over him. After this morning, after Dad, it was just too much.

“We’re finished, Dean,” Cassie said coldly. “Get out now. Just—just go.”

Dean thought about ignoring the order: thought about fighting for this, whatever it was. About trying to convince Cassie that he wasn’t nuts: wasn’t putting her on. But really, what was the point? Even if he could convince her, it wouldn’t change matters. Dad was back. Dad needed him. And God only knew how long it would be before Dad’s wandering path took them back this way.

But it still hurt. Now that the shock was starting to wear off, it hurt like hell.

Dean nodded, clinging tightly to his self-control. To the cold, empty face he had practiced and perfected over the years. He didn’t say goodbye; her slap had done that well enough for the both of them, and besides, he couldn’t find the words.

But Cassie wasn’t done with him. Stopped him with the terse, angry sound of her voice when he was halfway out the door.

“And Dean? Don’t bother calling. It’s better just to—a clean break.”

Déjà vu hit him hard and fierce.

 _Bus station: Sammy with his hands shoved into his pockets, his expression distant. ‘Don’t write, Dean, okay? Don’t call and for God’s sake don’t visit. I need to do this on my own, man. I need a clean break.’_

A clean break. Neither of them had anything to worry about on that front: when Dean Winchester broke something, it stayed broke.

He couldn’t help the hard, bitter laugh that slipped past his lips as he strode out the door and slammed it behind him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The drive to Flagstaff was difficult: both of them silent and awkward, and with only the radio as a distraction. Dean kept catching his father sneaking guilty glances at his throat, and he couldn’t keep from flinching whenever Dad moved a little too quickly next to him. So when John pulled up in front of the used car lot in Flagstaff, Dean felt a quick rush of relief.

“Bout time you had your own wheels,” John said shortly, and tossed the Impala’s keys into Dean’s lap before climbing out of the car.

Dean slid over into the driver’s seat and sat there while John bought a massive truck. Ran his fingers over the steering wheel and wished that he could get rid of the sour, sick taste in his mouth. Wished that it didn’t feel quite so much like his father was trying to buy his forgiveness.

But life was what it was, and later that night, over dinner and a couple of beers, Dean said, “Thank you.”

John regarded him intently for a few moments before nodding and smiling a little, relief painfully bright in his eyes. “You’re welcome, son.”

Things were easier between them after that, and Dean did his best to forget about Athens. About soft skin underneath his fingertips, and waking up to the sensation of a slender body wrapped around his. About that panicked, desperate week when he had believed that he was alone: that he had been abandoned again. About his father’s hand wrapped around his throat, stilling his breath.

Clean slate. Never happened.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

John started sending Dean off on his own: short, easy hunts that left him with a feeling of accomplishment. Dean never bothered to ask what John was doing when they were apart because he already knew. His father was following leads, trying to track down Mary’s murderer.

John was always restless when they met back up: edgy and tense. Dean gave him his space and was extra-conscious of his father’s moods. Stayed out of Dad’s way whenever he was in a temper. Didn’t want a repeat of Athens ( _never happened never_ ).

During the jobs that they worked together, Dean sometimes thought he saw things. Thought Dad moved a little faster than he used to: hit a little harder. Found himself panting just trying to keep up with the man, like he was nine years old again.

Whenever it happened, Dean checked for the amulet. Each time he expected it to be gone, but it was always there, mocking his fears. Even if John were capable of taking it off—and lately Dean had begun to think that he was, that he might even be seriously considering it—he hadn’t done so yet.

Sometimes John dropped by Stanford to check on Sam. When he got back, over a few beers at the local bar, John would tell Dean about it. Sam was taller, Sam was growing his hair out, Sam was doing well in his classes, Sam had been kissing a girl on the quad. Dean sat there and nursed his beer and nodded. But he never went to Palo Alto with Dad, and he never said anything when his father talked about his trips.


	4. Chapter 4

About a year after Athens, Dean dropped by Bobby’s while he was in South Dakota on a solo gig. He hadn’t seen him since the thing with the wolf, but the man looked pretty much the same when he opened the door. Dean grinned at him.

“Hey, man.”

“Dean. Good to see you.” Bobby’s answering smile was warm. He pulled the door open wider and stepped back. “Come on in.”

Dean moved inside and was immediately assaulted by about 80 pounds of rottweiler. The dog bounded around his legs, grinning lopsidedly up at him and wagging its tail. “You got a dog,” he said, surprised, and squatted down next to it before it managed to knock him over with its enthusiasm.

“Bout a year ago,” Bobby agreed. “His name’s Rumsfeld.” He shut the door as Rumsfeld put his massive paws up on Dean’s shoulders and started licking his face.

“I never figured you for the pet type,” Dean admitted, turning his face away and trying to get the dog off of him.

“He’s not a pet: he’s a guard dog. Aren’t you, Rumsfeld?” He whistled sharply and the rottweiler twisted his head around to look up at him. “Heel, boy.” Rumsfeld dropped back to the floor and jauntily swaggered over to Bobby’s side.

“That thing?” Dean shook his head as he climbed back to his feet. “Hope you didn’t pay too much, man, cause you’ve been gypped.”

“You insulting my dog, Dean?”

“Just saying. He’s a little friendly for a guard dog.” Bobby just smiled at him, eyes a little shadowed by the cap on his head, so Dean shrugged and let the subject drop. He turned and headed toward the kitchen. “Got any beer?”

“Might be a few bottles in the fridge,” Bobby allowed as he followed. Rumsfeld trailed after both of them, panting happily. “Where’s John at?”

“Nevada. He’s meeting up with me tomorrow.”

Bobby nodded. “Thought I’d heard that you two were working jobs separately now. How’s that going?”

Dean fished two bottles of Miller out of the fridge and handed one to Bobby before opening his own. “Okay, I guess.”

“How’s Sam?”

Dean tried to ignore the brief spasm of pain in his chest as he leaned against the counter. “How would I know?”

Bobby fixed him with a pointed stare. “I know for a fact your dad’s been checking up on him. You want to try telling me you don’t do a little surveillance yourself?”

Dean shifted uncomfortably, staring down at his beer. “Sam told me not to.” He tossed back a long swallow and then tapped his fingers against the neck of the bottle. “Dad says he got big,” he added. “Says he filled out some.”

Bobby sighed and came over to lean next to Dean. “I know you two had words the day he left, but it’s been two years. Give him a call, Dean; he’d be glad to hear from you.”

No, he wouldn’t. Not Sam. Kid was one of the most stubborn people Dean had ever met, next to their dad. And when he’d said Dean should stay away and keep away, he’d meant it.

“Look, can we—can we not talk about Sammy?” he asked.

Bobby hesitated, eyeing him, and then said, “Sure.” He sipped on his beer and then added, “Tell me about the job. You working that haunting a few counties over?”

“Jeffries’ house? Yeah. It’s clean: finished up last night.” Dean didn’t bother asking Bobby how he knew about it; somehow, the man always seemed to know everything that was going on.

“And your dad? What’s he doing in Nevada?”

Dean took another swig to hide his bitter smile. “Dunno. He’s not real chatty about what he does when he sends me off. Probably chasing another lead on the thing that killed Mom.”

Bobby looked down and fiddled with his bottle. “He said anything to you about that?”

“No. Guess he hasn’t found anything yet.” Bobby grunted noncommittally and Dean added, “This’ll probably be a bust too. You know, sometimes I wish he’d just—” He shut his mouth with a snap as he realized what he was about to say. It wasn’t that Dean didn’t want to get the thing that had killed Mom, he just ... just didn’t like what it did to Dad. Didn't like how Dad acted whenever he got back from one of his trips.

“You wish he’d just what?” Bobby prodded.

“Nothing. Forget it.” Dean pushed away from the counter. “You get any new cars in?”

Bobby gave him a look that said he wasn’t fooling anyone, but in the end he gave in and took Dean out back to look at the Dodge Charger he was currently working on. Dean walked around the car in a slow circle, running one hand along the restored bumper. Rumsfeld trailed after him, sniffing the ground and snapping at stray insects.

“Nice,” Dean said when he’d finished inspecting it. “How long have you been working on it?”

“Couple of weeks, on and off. Owner told me he wants it ‘like new’.” Bobby scoffed. “Like I was planning on doing anything else.”

“You need any help?” Dean offered. “I’m free for the rest of the afternoon.” His fingers were twitching: it had been far too long since he’d been under the hood of a car. Since he’d breathed in the comforting scent of motor oil and sun-warmed metal.

Bobby smiled at him knowingly. “Suppose there might be something you could do. If you want to bring the Impala around, we can give her a tune up first—from the sound of her engine she could use it.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Four hours later, Dean was sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table and cutting into one of the steaks Bobby had cooked up. He was covered in sweat and grease smears from working on the two cars, and he felt more relaxed and content than he had in a year. Rumsfeld had his head on Dean’s knee and was making pathetic, ‘I’m starving’ eyes up at him.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Bobby grunted from across the table. “That dog eats better than I do.”

Dean nodded and slipped Rumsfeld a piece of steak under the table when Bobby looked back down at his own plate. “So, Bobby,” he said, cutting into his meat again. “You run into anything interesting lately?”

Bobby gave him a strange, sharp glance and said, “Maybe. What kind of interesting are you asking about?”

Dean started to answer and then paused at the faint sound of a car coming down the main drive. Rumsfeld tore himself away from Dean’s side and bounded toward the front door, tail wagging ferociously.

“Huh,” Bobby grunted, leaning back in his chair. “I wonder who—”

Rumsfeld started barking suddenly from the front of the house and Bobby stiffened. Then he was shoving himself up out of his chair and hurrying across the kitchen to root around in one of the drawers.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked, putting down his knife and fork.

“Something’s here,” Bobby said shortly. He pulled a revolver out of the drawer. “You armed?”

A rush of adrenaline made Dean’s heart race as he pulled his hunting knife out of his boot sheath in answer to Bobby’s question.

“That all?”

“Yeah, the rest of my stuff is in the car. Bobby, what—”

“Here.” Bobby shoved the revolver into Dean’s hand and then pulled him to his feet. Rumsfeld’s barks continued to echo through the house.

“What the hell is going on?” Dean demanded as he followed Bobby toward the front door.

Bobby snagged another gun off of a book-strewn desk as he went by it. “You know animals can sense the supernatural? Well, Rumsfeld’s been trained to be a loud, annoying ass about it. ‘S what I meant before when I said he was a guard dog.”

“You mean whatever was in that car isn’t human,” Dean said, double-checking the revolver Bobby had given him. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the man to keep his weapons clean, but a paranoid hunter was a safe hunter.

“That’s the gist of it.” Bobby hurried up to the living room window and peered out. Immediately dropped his head and swore. “Oh, _hell_.”

“What is it?” Dean asked, flipping the safety off his gun.

Bobby glanced back at him, and his face was a horrible mixture of fear and anger. “Dean, get back into the kitchen.”

“What?” Dean scowled. “I’m not leaving you here, Bobby.”

“Just go—”

“Like hell. Something wants to come through that door, it’ll have to go through both of us.”

Whatever was outside knocked on the door and Bobby’s face instantly went from frightened to panicked.

“Dean,” he hissed. “I’m not telling you again: get out, I can han—”

“Bobby? You home?”

Dean’s heart stuttered painfully and he forgot how to breathe. He knew that voice. Knew that the man on the other side of the door used the side of his fist to pound on the door instead of his knuckles the way most people did. Knew what kind of aftershave he used. Knew that he slept on his back and snored when his hay fever was acting up.

Bobby pressed his eyes shut. “Goddamn it, John,” he whispered.

Dean couldn’t seem to move. Could only stand there, stunned, as Bobby tucked his gun into his pants and hurried over to Rumsfeld. As he dragged the dog over to Dean and said, “Guard.” Rumsfeld shut up and positioned himself between Dean and the door—between Dean and his father—and his muzzle pulled back in a silent snarl.

Dean tried to say something—tried to deny it—but he couldn’t function through the confused boil of _shitfucknofinallyyesgoddamnittohell_ tumbling through him. So he quietly watched while Bobby pulled a shotgun off the wall. He watched the man load and cock it and listened to his father shouting for Bobby to get his ass up and answer the door.

Bobby raised the shotgun. “I’m not deaf, John; I can hear you!” he called.

The pounding and shouting stopped immediately, and then John’s voice came again, lower but more urgent. “Open the door, Bobby.”

“Ain’t gonna happen. You just turn around and go back the way you came. And don’t try anything stupid, John: I’ve got a gun pointed straight at you.”

“Now why would you want to do something like that?” John asked, and Dean recognized that voice: could picture his father’s face on the other side of the door, dangerous and still.

“You know why, you arrogant, stupid bastard.”

There was a long pause and then John’s voice, deceptively soft, broke the silence. “Then you know you aren’t gonna be able to stop me all that easy, don’t you?”

And despite everything—despite the fact that he’d known as soon as he’d heard his father’s voice coming through Bobby’s front door—the confirmation hit Dean in the gut like a bullet. He must have made some kind of noise because Bobby glanced over at him, concerned, and that was when John came crashing through the door. He heaved it open and off its hinges and then lumbered forward into the room. Where he caught sight of Dean and stopped, horror turning his face into a mask.

Dean wanted to look away and was trapped by the miserable realization in his father’s eyes. By the way they gleamed and caught the light with a faint golden cast and Jesus how the hell could Dean not have seen this, not have known? And the answer, deep and nauseating, was that he hadn’t seen it because he hadn’t wanted to.

“The Impala,” John said hoarsely. “I didn’t see it out front.”

Dean swallowed. Answered the unspoken question. “I parked around back.”

Then Bobby was moving to stand between them, the shotgun still raised in his hands. “Go on, John. Get out. I don’t want to have to shoot you in front of Dean.”

“Bobby, _don’t_.” Dean tried to edge forward, reaching to take the gun from Bobby’s hands, and Rumsfeld growled a warning at him. Pushed Dean further away, shooting nervous, hostile glances back at John as he did so.

“You stay where you are, Dean,” Bobby said shortly without looking back.

John’s face darkened. “I don’t think so.” His eyes were like a lead weight on Dean’s skin. They made him feel slow and set a deep ache in his bones, as though his father’s gaze was a physical thing that left bruises. “I want you to leave, Dean. Go wait for me at the motel.”

“He’s not going anywhere with you.”

“Like hell he isn’t!” John dragged his eyes over to Bobby. His muscles bunched as though he wanted to charge forward, and he restrained himself with obvious effort. “He’s my son, and he’ll do what I tell him.”

“Not anymore he isn’t,” Bobby grunted. “You’re not his father anymore, John.”

John growled: a deep bestial rumbling. “Keep pissing me off and there won’t be enough left of you to feed that mutt of yours.”

Bobby didn’t waver. “You do what you want to me; you aren’t taking him.” And then he added, huskily, “You’ve already done enough damage.”

John’s shoulders were tensing, his head lowering, and Dean could tell that he was a heartbeat away from losing control and rushing Bobby. From getting a load of buckshot in his gut or his face. It would slow John, but Dean knew he’d keep coming, and then Bobby would pull out the gun tucked in his jeans. Would John be able to tear Bobby’s throat out before he went down? Dean didn’t know: didn’t want to know. But he could almost smell the gunpowder. Smell the blood.

“Stop it.” Dean’s voice wasn’t very loud, not much above a whisper, but both men heard him. John relaxed minutely and his eyes, heavy and burning, found Dean’s face again.

Bobby kept his own gaze fixed on John, but Dean could feel the man’s attention shift to him. “Dean,” Bobby said, and it was half warning, half request for permission.

John’s eyes were a brand on Dean’s skin, marking him. “No, Bobby. Don’t. I can’t—don’t hurt him, okay?”

“Dean, I know this is hard for you, but that ain’t your Dad anymore.”

“Like hell I’m not!” John thundered, and his nostrils flared.

“Dad, please,” Dean said quickly, keeping his voice low. “Please, just—let’s just go.”

John shook his head once, ponderously. His attention swung back to Bobby. “I need to look in the book again.”

“It’s not here, John,” Bobby announced. “Gave it to a friend for safekeeping.”

John’s eyes flared and his breathing quickened. “Who?”

Bobby snorted. “You don’t really think I’m gonna tell you that, do you?”

“Maybe you just need the right motivation …” John flexed his hands slowly.

Damn it, things were getting out of hand again, and Dean didn’t know what else he could do: didn’t think they were going to listen to him again. But he tried, pleading, “Dad, Bobby, stop. God, just—”

“You gonna motivate me, John?” Bobby asked tonelessly. “In front of Dean?”

“You son of a bitch.” John’s lips drew back from his teeth in a feral grin. “All right, you win, Bobby. I’m going.” His eyes shifted back to Dean. “ _We’re_ going.”

“I can’t let you take him.”

“Bobby,” Dean said softly. “I’m going.”

Now Bobby did swivel his head around, gun held steady on John. Dean half-expected his father to take advantage of Bobby’s distraction, but the man just stood there looking smug.

“You can’t mean that!” Bobby exclaimed.

Dean dropped his eyes to the floor and lifted the gun in his hand. Pointed it at Rumsfeld’s head. “Call him off, Bobby. I don’t want to shoot him, but I will if I have to.”

“Damn it, Dean, just listen to me for a minute. It isn’t safe, he’s—”

“I know.” Dean laughed a little. “Hell, I know that better than you do. I felt it, remember? But I don’t—I can’t—”

He trembled minutely under Bobby’s gaze: felt the man’s eyes on him even though he was staring at the floor. He didn’t want to go with Dad, wanted to run and find a hole in the earth and bury himself in it. No, he didn’t want to go, but he had to. Bobby was right about it being dangerous, but Bobby was wrong, too: John was still his father.

“Okay,” Bobby said finally, his voice hoarse. “Rumsfeld, down.”

Rumsfeld slunk over to Bobby’s side, still glaring balefully at John. Dean flipped the safety back on and gently put the gun down on a nearby stack of books. Moved across the room toward the front door. Bobby reached out and grabbed Dean’s shoulder as he passed, halting him and eliciting an angry growl from John.

“You be careful, Dean,” Bobby murmured. “Don’t turn your back on him, okay?”

Dean nodded. “Thanks for everything, Bobby.”

Bobby squeezed his shoulder tightly and then released him. Glanced back at John. “Consider this your warning, John. You show up here again, I ain’t asking what you want before I shoot you.”

“You shoot me, Bobby, you better make sure your aim’s good.”

Then Dean was standing next to his father, was right in front of him, and he could feel the heat coming off of the man. Could taste violence and blood in the air John was breathing. He flinched when his father’s hand came up and clamped onto his shoulder, but John didn’t seem to notice. Just tightened his grip possessively, all of his attention still riveted on Bobby.

“Best stay in here until we’re gone,” he ordered.

Watching Dean with an earnest, worried expression, Bobby ignored the implicit threat. “You need me, Dean, you know where to find me.”

Dean nodded again but didn’t say anything. Waited until John turned and led him out. And did his best to ignore the small voice telling him that this was probably the most idiotic thing he’d ever done.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“God, Dad, how could you?”

It was the first thing Dean said when they got back to the motel. It was the only thing he’d been thinking since they left Bobby’s, and he didn’t think that there was any acceptable answer. Knew the one that John was going to offer him—for Mary, to find Mary’s killer—and that shit just wasn’t going to fly anymore. Not for something like this.

John scrubbed a hand across his face and sighed. He wasn’t wearing the amulet anymore: probably figured that now that Dean knew, he didn’t have to keep up the pretense. It put a bitter taste in Dean’s mouth, not seeing it around his father’s neck. It helped feed the anger that had risen on the long, solitary drive to the motel: the anger that had surfaced once he’d finally gotten over his shock at his father’s betrayal.

“I’ve got my reasons,” John said softly.

“Mom? Cause that’s bullshit. It’s not worth it.”

John’s face went from exhausted to pissed off in under a second and Dean tensed, fear curling in through the anger and the hurt. He thought back to Athens, which had apparently happened after all: to his father’s hand crushing his throat, choking him. Expected a repeat performance, but John just sat there, eyes blazing and body trembling with the effort not to move. Finally, after a few minutes of strained waiting, John relaxed back into his chair.

“Damn it, Dean,” he muttered. “Don’t do that to me. Don’t piss me off.”

Don’t piss of the berserker. Okay, yeah, probably a good idea. “Sorry,” Dean muttered.

“Look, son, I can’t tell you my reasons. You’re just going to have to trust me. And it’s not that bad: I can control it.”

“The way you controlled it in Athens?” Dean asked, and John winced.

“No, I—I’d just done it, then, and I hadn’t figured out how to work things yet. Hadn’t settled in. I haven’t touched you since then, have I? Dean, have I laid so much as a finger on you?”

Dean shook his head slowly. “No, but, Dad, Bobby’s right. This is dangerous. You need to—Bobby can make another amulet, maybe. We can—”

“It’s too late, son. Two-as-one, remember? It’s—it’s difficult to explain. I can still feel the bear inside me, but it’s like feeling an arm or a leg. It’s part of me, do you understand?”

Dean’s stomach turned. Too late. It really was too late. “Yeah, I understand.”

John’s smile was relieved, and Dean had the feeling that his father had heard more than he’d been prepared to offer. “Thank God. I don’t know what I would’ve done, Dean, if you hadn’t. I need you with me on this, son. It’s—It’s harder to control when I’m on my own. Without you, I’m not sure … not sure what would happen.”

 _Oh hell_ , Dean thought, and then, _No. No, I can’t do this._ He couldn’t stay with Dad and pretend that things were fine: that everything was normal. He couldn’t live with the bear, hunt with it. How long would it be before Dad lost it? How long before he couldn’t shake off the bloodlust after a hunt and turned on Dean?

But if Dean left, if he made his father wade through the mess he’d made on his own, then Dad really would be lost to the bear. He’d just admitted as much. Dean could feel the walls of the trap closing in on him. Because this wasn’t really Dad’s mess, was it? It was Dean’s.

Dean had infected his father, hadn’t been strong enough to keep the wolf out. He was to blame for this whole sorry situation. Stupid or not—suicidal or not—he couldn’t just walk out. Couldn’t abandon his father, not while John needed him. And really, Dean had never made the smart decision before: why should he start now?

“It’s okay,” Dean muttered, dropping his eyes from that tender, grateful look on his father’s face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hunting was different now that John wasn’t hiding what he’d done. He was faster. Stronger. Dean had to struggle to keep up with his father: kept showing up just in time to see John take the thing’s head off. Did his best not to throw up when he watched his father tear the arm off of a ghoul like it was made of paper.

Dean started to look forward to the times John would head off on his own—following leads, his father called it. For a few days Dean would be able to let his guard down: wouldn’t have to spend every waking moment watching what he said, making sure he wasn’t letting his fear and disgust slip through. It was fucked up and miserable, but that was life. His life. And he was just going to have to deal with it.

He dreaded the first few days after he and Dad met up again. John always looked … sated … and it left Dean wondering what the hell his father had been up to. He spent long nights at abandoned laundromats trying to get the blood out of his father’s clothes. Knew that none of it was John’s but couldn’t bring himself to ask where it had come from.

Dean thought about Sam more and more. Felt both resentment and a kind of desperate joy that Sam had made it out before everything had gone to hell: that Sam, at least, was safe from this. Safe from Dad. Safe from Dean.

One of these days, John wasn’t going to be able to control himself anymore, and Dean honestly didn’t know what he’d do when that day came. Whether he’d shoot his father and end it all, or whether he’d give up. Let the wolf in and follow his father down into Hell, the same way he’d followed him everywhere else.

The worst part of the whole, fucked up situation was that there was a part of Dean that was thrilled to have found something that tied Dad to him: something that made him valuable and needed. They were spiraling, circling the drain, but Dad wasn’t going to leave. It made Dean so fucking relieved that he could cry.

But then there was New Orleans, another shitty motel room after a night of drinking, and apparently Dad could leave after all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean had been dreaming of before: fragmented memories of Dad taking a day off and driving him and Sammy to a lake. Flirting with the local girls and dunking Sammy and shoving sand down his little brother’s swim trunks and Dad buying all three of them ice cream and then he was waking up, blinking at the ceiling in confusion. It was dark in the room, and quiet, and for a minute he didn’t know what had woken him. Then he looked down a little and his body broke out in a cold sweat.

Dad was standing over him, eyes shining in the dark room, and his hand was closed in a fist around Dean’s amulet. The muscles in his forearm were corded and tense. John saw that Dean was awake and his other hand came down awkwardly— _drunk, he’s drunk_ —to pat Dean’s head.

“S’okay, Dean,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Dad, please …” _No. God no don’t Dad please._

“We’re stronger together,” John muttered. “Two-as-one is good, but four-as-two is better.”

“God, Dad, please don’t. _Please_.”

But John wasn’t listening to him. His fingers twitched. He was going to do it.

Dean heard a choked, hurt sound and knew it had come from him. This was it: end of the line. All his worrying and wondering, and he wasn’t even going to have a chance to make the choice himself.

Then John’s face was changing, was filling with horror and self-hatred. “Oh Jesus Christ, Dean, I’m sorry.” He dropped the amulet and backed away.

Dean didn’t look at his father as John threw his stuff hurriedly into his bags. Didn’t say anything as the man fled the room, slamming the door behind him. Then he rolled onto his side and curled into a ball, shivering and staring at the empty bed next to his. He lay there until morning, until he was sure that Dad was gone. That he wasn’t coming back this time.

And realized that, for the first time in his life, he was grateful to have been left behind.


End file.
